Torchship Pilot

by Karl K Gallagher

  “It’s not the same,” Guo said. “You’re fighting to protect freedom, to defend us. Not being an interstellar bully.”

  Tears trickled down Mitchie’s face. “It’s the same to whoever loved that kid.” She pulled her legs away from him, curling up on her side.

  Guo lay beside her. He wrapped himself tight around her. “You are following your duty. Duty keeps you on the path to righteousness. I trust you to make the right decision. It may not be good. Sometimes there’s no good to choose. But you choose the least bad.”

  They laid on the bed a long time. Her tears for her enemy soaked his arm.

  Sulu Station, Shishi System, centrifugal acceleration 10 m/s2

  Mitchie went with the cracker team to dump the data haul on Chu’s analysts. Setta had found a secure datasheet for her so she could follow along as they sorted through the pieces.

  Pickett found her proof. “Ha! Look at the Civil Disorder Contingency Plan. They’re already worried about their virtual underclass being found out.”

  She followed his link to the document. The cover page wore more classified restrictions than any other she’d ever seen. “What’s SOCCONON mean?” she asked the room. None of the analysts had heard of it.

  The threat analysis focused on young males on the stipend. A flowchart showed how to sort the public records for real threats if the SOCCON database was down. The crowd control methods started with the formations she’d seen as an academy cadet.

  Mitchie skipped ahead about fifty pages. “Holy shit!”

  The exclamation drew glances from around the room. “What?” asked Pickett.

  She quoted from the CDCP. “If contact with higher level civil authorities has been lost, mayors may authorize use of heavy weapons including orbital bombardment.”

  “That’s a hell of an ROE,” muttered an analyst.

  Pickett laughed. “When I get home I’ll have to make that an election issue. ‘Mr. Mayor, what’s your stand on the use of hypervelocity weapons on domestic targets?’” Grim chuckles went around the room.

  “They’re clearly scared,” said Commander Suk, the department lead. “This will be useful leverage. The trick will be not panicking them.”

  “Aha!” burst out a junior analyst. He’d skipped to the appendices on the theory that they were the hiding spot for information too dangerous to go in the main section. “The fraction of fictions has been growing over time. They’re using it to cover their lower birthrate. The author is complaining that more fictionals increases the chance of blowing the secret. He predicts it’ll be blown in a window starting—huh—two years ago. Ah, this was written five years ago.”

  “And they thought a nice brisk war would distract everyone from that,” said Suk. “That’s enough on the Fusion’s dirty laundry. Everyone back to looking for operational plans.”

  The analysts shifted their displays to search grids again. Mitchie figured ‘everyone’ meant Suk’s subordinates. She kept digging through the CDCP. The Fusion planners hadn’t used the term ‘omegaphobia’ but their fears of theft, demonstrations, assaults, and other anti-social behavior matched the predictions from Gaia’s Hand.

  That evening Admirals Chu and Galen arrived to hear the preliminary report. Suk handled the briefing. Mitchie wasn’t invited to help present any of the findings. She slipped to the back of the room and snagged a seat next to Captain Deng, Galen’s chief of staff.

  “What happened to the boss?” she asked him. Admiral Galen had a black eye and some scabs on his forehead.

  “Would you believe he tripped in the gym?” replied the CoS.

  “Only if you were a much better liar.”

  The CoS leaned in to whisper in her ear. “He made a morale-building visit to one of the refugee camps. They all wanted to know when they could go back to Bonaventure and why aren’t we attacking the Fusion. Got heated. When the shoving started security moved in. But they ignored this little grandmother type. She marched up to the Admiral, said ‘Stop dropping bombs on my home and blow up their ships!’ and smacked him in the face with her purse.”

  Mitchie managed to keep from laughing out loud but put a hand up to hide her smile.

  “Yeah, he saw the humor in it too once we had the bleeding stopped.”

  “I hadn’t realized the civilians were getting so tense,” she said.

  “It’s just the Bonnies. The other worlds are holding firm. Crew morale’s worrying me. They need action after getting our asses kicked out of the system. Something better than sending hypervelocity missiles against Fusion camps on Bonaventure.”

  Third Battle of Bonaventure, phase one.

  Chapter Eleven: Corruption

  Bonaventure, gravity 10.1 m/s2

  Bing examined the wound after taking the bandages off. No reddening or other signs of infection. “You’ll be walking in a few weeks, soldier,” she said.

  “Thanks, ma’am,” said her patient. He set his jaw as she smeared regrowth ointment on the torn muscles.

  A new set of bandages on top and she was done. “Rest easy,” she said.

  Bing looked for her next task. A man called weakly for water, but an orderly was already moving toward him. The chest wound needed a new dressing but he was sleeping peacefully for once. Better to wait. The toe amputation it was then.

  She’d pulled the sheets over the patient’s foot when she heard the shouts and laughter. The man wanting water, a Fusion prisoner, was coughing and spitting and cursing as the two orderlies laughed at him. His ankle chains rattled as he thrashed in the bed.

  One was holding a bottle of disinfectant. “How do you like the taste of that, Fuzie?” he said.

  Bing strode over and slapped him. “I’ve had it with you. You’re a bully and a coward. If you’re still a civilian at noon tomorrow I’m writing ‘Michael Fang is a coward’ on the cafeteria wall.”

  Orderly Fang flinched back. “You wouldn’t!”

  “And I’ll sign my name to it. Get out.”

  Fang fled.

  The other orderly picked up the dropped bottle. “No use trying that on me. They won’t take me.” He stood with his weight on his left leg—the right had healed crooked after he was caught in a Fusion artillery barrage.

  “I’ve seen them take worse,” said Bing. “But I still have hope for you. Just remember. In here they’re all patients and we take care of our patients. Now get him some water. And apologize to him.”

  “Yes’m.”

  She went back to the amputee’s bed but kept an eye on the orderly. When the boy held out a bedpan so the prisoner could rinse his mouth she relaxed. He’ll do okay if I can keep him away from bad influences.

  As Bing cleaned the stumps of the toes a shock wave rattled the building. Another Disconnect missile hitting the atmosphere at a couple percent of the speed of light. No boom—it must have hit too far away for them to hear the impact. All she could hear was clapping and cheering from her patients.

  She went back to treating the foot.

  Sulu Station, Shishi System, centrifugal acceleration 10 m/s2

  Guo said, “Seems a guy talking secrets to you turns you on even if he got the secrets from you.” Mitchie had given him a copy of CDCP. Discussing it had turned into vigorous fooling around.

  “Guess so,” she said, head pillowed on his chest.

  They lay content for a while.

  Guo wondered, “This omega business . . . if it’s intrinsic to humans, where are the omegas on Akiak?”

  She thought a moment. “They’re the guys who get a few lashes for theft or assault, and die of infections because they pissed off everyone who could change their bandages.”

  “Ugh. That makes sense. I hate to think we’re deliberately doing that as omegacide.”

  Mitchie changed the subject back to where they’d left off. “Do you think the Fusion will give in to keep us from blabbing?”

  “They’ll make some concessions. Maybe lots of concessions,” said Guo.

  “So we can end the war.”


  “For a little while. But it doesn’t change the reason they attacked.”

  “They’re trying to prop up their society by making everyone hate us. If they’re dealing with a rebellion it’s too late for that to work.”

  “No. They can try to make the rebels fight a common enemy.” Guo waved at his shelf of history books. “It’s been tried before. Sometimes it even works.”

  “Yeah, but what would the rebels get out of beating the Disconnect?”

  “Power. Loot. Concubines. Put them in as the occupation troops. They’d lord it over us. In a generation or two they’d be an aristocratic caste.”

  Mitchie contemplated that vision. “So we can’t escape the war?”

  “Them invading isn’t inevitable. It’s just that the Fusion can’t go on the way it has. It has to change somehow. It could just collapse if the riots burn down everything.”

  “And then the AIs would puree the survivors,” said Mitchie.

  “I suppose the Disconnect could support their Navy after the collapse. We don’t want the Betrayers running loose either.”

  “Could we? Bonaventure’s industry must be shattered by now. The rest of the Disconnect doesn’t have as much as they do.”

  Guo said slowly, “If the Fusion and the Disconnect are going to fight the Betrayers together, the time to do it is before they collapse. Have both sides focus on the common enemy.”

  “Can’t do that if we blow up each other’s fleets.”

  He sat up. “We’re not going to blow them up. The infoweapon disables them, but we’d just have to install new memories to get them working again. We should make that the price of getting their fleet back: allying against the Betrayers.”

  “I can’t see us being allies with the Fusion.” I can’t be the only one to hate them this much, she thought. Derry’s face came to mind, then the face of the dead trainee on Lapis. “The Bonnies are going to carry a grudge.”

  “It’s happened in other wars. And every time a war ended some country switches sides. Italy went from Germany’s side to America’s. Then when that war ended Germany allied with America to fight the Russians.”

  “Okay, maybe the alliance can work. The Fusion still has all those stipend kids ready to riot when they find out they’ve been lied to.”

  “They could be enlisted,” said Guo. “Or just sent to Demeter to rebuild it. Other worlds too. With all the ships built for this war we should be able to take the offensive. If their society is collapsing, we can push it to fall in the other direction.”

  “The Fuzies would like that. If they’re not so used to cringing from AIs that they can’t change.” Mitchie looked him in the eye. “You need to present that to an admiral.”

  “Oh, no. Chiefs don’t tell admirals what to do. That’s officer business. Besides, strategy at that level isn’t for admirals anyway. The civilian leaders make the call.”

  “Hmpf. I don’t know anyone in the DCC. I don’t even know anyone who knows anyone in the DCC.”

  Shishi, gravity 9.9 m/s2

  “Commander Long! What a delightful surprise! Please, come in.” Ambassador Bakunin’s office was in an office complex the Defense Coordinating Committee had taken over when they evacuated from Bonaventure. “Are you thirsty?” He lifted a pitcher of orange juice.

  “Yes, thank you.” She was thirsty but took only a sip. As she expected it was half vodka.

  “It is good to see you again. You have been busy. I’ve missed you. And speaking of missing people—” he topped off their glasses “—to Captain Schwartzenberger.”

  “To Captain Schwartzenberger,” answered Mitchie. She matched Bakhunin in draining their glasses.

  “But you did not visit me to mourn a brave man. What may I help you with?”

  “We had an idea about a potential peace treaty I’d like your opinion on.” She explained Guo’s concept.

  “Interesting. Such a joint offensive has been proposed before. But not since Noisy Water.” He began to pace around his desk. “The Fusion public would approve. The Stakeholders could even pass it off as a victory.” More pacing. “We would need a solid win over their fleet first. They are too terrified of AIs to want to attack.” He sat again. “May I introduce you to a friend of mine?”

  “Of course.” If this friend was willing to push the idea Mitchie would let him have the credit and head back to her ship.

  Bakhunin pulled out his datasheet and pressed some buttons.

  “Ku here,” said the gadget.

  “Are you busy there? I’d like to bring someone over.”

  “Just taking a break from spinning our wheels. Come on by.”

  Bakhunin led her on a winding route through the building, passing through several guard posts. Mitchie appreciated the walk. It let her clear out some of the vodka fumes.

  Their destination was a formal conference room. A semi-circular table faced a few rows of chairs. Everyone was standing and chatting in the middle.

  Bakhunin coughed to get their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, the much-traveled Lieutenant Commander Michigan Long.”

  The crowd—about thirty well-dressed civilians—gathered around to shake her hand. The first one Mitchie recognized as Letitia Walker, Akiak’s representative on the DCC.

  “Michigan. You’ve done us very proud. I’m glad to meet you at last.” Walker stepped aside to make room for the rest.

  Nobody took the time to introduce themselves. Mitchie thought she recognized the representatives for Bonaventure and Fuego.

  When everyone had their turn the crowd dispersed again. Bakhunin finished his quiet chat with a tall man. The man walked around the table to its center and clapped his hands. Bakhunin waved for Mitchie to join him in the center of the front row. Everyone else found their seats.

  Bakhunin remained standing.

  Mitchie looked at the curved table. Letitia Walker sat behind a sign labeled “Akiak.” Each other seat at the table had a planet’s name. Good Lord, she thought, this is the DCC.

  Bakhunin’s tall friend sat behind the Shishi sign. He banged a gavel. “The Defense Coordinating Committee, Representative Ku presiding, is now in session. The chair recognizes Ambassador Bakhunin on a point of personal privilege.”

  “If it please the committee, Lieutenant Commander Long has a suggestion well worth your consideration.” Bakhunin sat, leaving Mitchie the only person standing in the room.

  Chairman Ku said, “Commander? We’re all ears.”

  ***

  Back in Bakhunin’s office Mitchie collapsed into his guest chair. “If I killed you for doing that,” she said, “no jury would convict me.”

  He shrugged and handed her a drink with only enough juice to tint it translucent yellow. “No Akiak jury, certainly. A Bonaventure jury would think you overreacted. But we are on Shishi, and I gave up predicting their behavior years ago.”

  She took a gulp of the drink. “You could have warned me.”

  “Of course. But you are at your best when spontaneous. With warning you would have written a speech, edited it ten times, rehearsed it six times, and bored them all to sleep. This was much better.”

  “I was spouting off about fleet dispositions. Admiral Galen will kill me.”

  Bakhunin topped off her drink. “You gave hypothetical answers to their direct questions. Good ones, too. Ku’s a retired cruiser captain. He’s impressed.”

  “Chu’s going to be pissed at me.”

  “How would you tell?”

  Mitchie laughed. Bakhunin let her drink in peace.

  When she put the glass on his desk he said, “I don’t know if they’ll approve it. It’s a risky plan. But at least it has a better goal than getting a five year break before the next war.”

  Bonaventure System, acceleration 10 m/s2

  SIS Vegetius jumped into the Bonaventure System through the Fuego gate. This time she wasn’t on decoy duty. The rest of the squadron flung missiles about and reacted to the Fusion Navy’s maneuvers. Vegetius took an evasive route to a precise
point in space.

  In the number one tube rested a missile of a type unknown before the war. The assembly crew on Shishi had kissed it before sending it off to the fleet. It had a precisely calibrated torch, superb position sensors, but no explosives.

  The Fusion Navy spared a few missiles to Vegetius but she destroyed them without missing her rendezvous. At the appointed time and place the ship fired the special missile then joined her squadron mates in harassing Fuzie spacers.

  The missile locked in its navigation references—the local sun, a few bright stars, Bonaventure itself. Satisfied it was in the proper place it began accelerating at seventy gravs. Slow for a missile. The designers had valued accuracy and precision over power.

  Twelve hours later its torch shut down. In the missile’s nose an ingot of iridium rested. A tank of liquid helium bathed it to bring its temperature down to the cold background of space. The cradle pulled away. The ingot rested freely in space. The missile’s maneuvering thrusters fired to back away from it. Then the missile went off to join the ongoing engagement.

  The ingot warmed in the sunlight. Not enough to make it noticeable to the Fusion Navy’s thermal arrays with all the torches burning hotly in the zone. It was painted a nonreflective black. Its shape was cylindrical, without any recesses to reflect radar pings. No one noticed it approaching Bonaventure at one percent of the speed of light.

  Bonaventure’s atmosphere didn’t slow it significantly. Air molecules were crushed between the ingot and their own inertia, breaking bonds and losing their electrons. The plasma bow wave left a streak of light through the sky. A third of the planet saw it. The natives exulted. Invaders flinched.

  The ingot never slowed. A stack of sandbags over bedrock stopped it. The projectile’s massive kinetic energy became heat and light. Ionized iridium atoms flowed out in the blast wave. The Fusion Marine supply depot burned. Outlying facilities were blown flat.